Hermione's Therapy Session
by FlyersGirl1
Summary: Hermione seeks some emotional healing post-War. One shot scene between Hermione and her healer. Pairing is Hermione-Ron, and he is discussed, but he does not make a physical appearance in this one.


**One Shot: Therapy**

"I'm glad you're here, Hermione."

Hermione doesn't respond; she just looks down at her hands, which are clasped tightly together.

"I understand that you have some . . . misgivings, perhaps?"

"I'm not here of my own volition, if that's what you're asking," Hermione mutters, looking up and meeting his eyes.

He smiles at her. She notices that his eyes are kind. They're the type of eyes that always match the smile. Perfect for a healer, she thinks.

"So, why _are_ you here?"

"You met him—just outside," she says quietly.

He nods. "Yes," he pauses. "So, why is it that Ronald thinks you need to be here?"

Hermione shrugs. "Maybe you should ask _him_. I'd be happy to send him in and wait outside."

"That won't be necessary."

Hermione goes back to staring at her hands.

He clears his throat and tries again. "You're pretty famous these days."

"Seems so."

He pauses. "Is that difficult for you?"

"Difficult how?"

"Being thrust into the spotlight. Making your personal life—your relationships—public. . . . Does it bother you?"

"I don't know. Should we go check if Ron is signing autographs outside?"

"I'm interested in how _you_ feel."

"Well, you could read all about how _I_ feel in _The Daily Prophet_, I'm sure."

"What do you mean?"

"Haven't you seen the articles? They hound us. Write silly nonsense. They published a photo of us _snogging_. In Ron's bloody garden. When we were alone. Or thought we were, anyway. We can't be normal these days—not anywhere."

"And how does that make you feel?"

Hermione ignores the question. She picks up a book off his table, fingering it lightly. "Nice," she looks up at him.

"You like it?"

"_A History of Hogwarts_? I've practically memorized it," Hermione smiles. She slides the book back onto the coffee table.

He isn't easily deterred. "So, how do you feel when _The Prophet_ turns your private moments into public ones?"

Hermione shrugs. "It's all just . . . so ridiculous. If they could get a camera into Ron's room to get a picture of us shagging, they'd publish it tomorrow, I'm sure. Who knows? Maybe they already have one."

"That must be stressful for you."

"Well, I think Ron's mum would prefer not to know," Hermione laughs. "Or at least hope to avoid being informed by _The Prophet_'s crack news staff."

He ignores her attempt at humor.

Her smile fades, and she sighs. "It's rubbish, okay? I hate them. Of course I hate them. The headlines alone—'The Chosen One Returns.' 'The Golden Trio.' It's all rubbish."

"How do you feel about that? The Golden Trio?"

"We're not very golden these days," Hermione unconsciously fingers her forearm. It doesn't escape his notice.

"Why do you say that?"

Hermione raises an eyebrow at him, as if in challenge. "Because we're people. Normal people. And we've lost"—her voice breaks but she catches herself—"a lot."

"You've lost family?" he presses her gently.

Hermione nods. "Ron's brother, Fred. He was—he was amazing. Funny. Kind. And they were so close. He's gone. . . . Ron's—it's so hard. And for George. George—Fred's twin—is a wreck. And so are his mum and dad. Everyone. It's just—it's not fair."

"There's not a lot that's fair about war."

"No," she agrees.

"Do you worry a lot about Ronald?"

"Of course."

"And your family?"

"Do I worry about them?"

"I'm sorry. I meant—have you—have you lost them?"

"My parents are muggles. I sent them to Australia before the war. I knew they'd be in danger here," she runs her fingers over her forearm again.

"Is your arm bothering you, Hermione?"

Hermione jerks her fingers away from her arm. "What? No."

"I see that you keep touching your arm there. Is there something significant about that?"

"No."

"Why were you worried that your parents would be in danger if they stayed in England?"

"Didn't you hear me? They're muggles."

"And they didn't mind their daughter going to fight on behalf of a bunch of wizards against Voldemort?"

"They didn't know. I obliviated their memories before I left."

"I see." He pauses. "Are they alive, your parents?"

"Yes. We went to Australia and brought them back."

"We?"

"Ron and I."

"And they were unharmed?"

"Yes."

"Were there others? You lost others?"

"Many others," Hermione says quietly, trying to block out the picture in her head—the picture of all of those bloody senseless deaths, the bodies lying on the ground at Hogwarts.

"You're having difficulty . . . coping with the losses?"

Hermione snorts. "Are you serious? And _you're_ an emotional healer?"

He smiles at her. Merlin, he's patient. It's bloody infuriating.

"Of course I'm having difficulty _coping_ with the losses."

"Is that why Ronald was so insistent that you see me?"

Hermione hesitates. "No."

"Then why are you here?"

She pauses. "You already know," she looks at him accusingly. "I'm having nightmares."

He ignores the accusatory stare and waits for her to continue. She doesn't.

"And Ronald is concerned?" he asks gently. It's not really a question, though.

"You've met him, right? He's—he's overprotective."

"Why do you think that is?"

Hermione stares at him. "Because we've just been through a bloody war."

"Do you think he has good reason to be concerned?"

Hermione shrugs. "He loves me, he's worried. He's leaving. . . . He worries about leaving me alone."

"Where is he going?"

Hermione sighs. "Auror training. For three months. You know they don't let you get owls except for once a week? And there's no time off. No weekend visits. Nothing. It's three months of—I don't even know."

"Does that bother you?"

"That I can't speak to my boyfriend for three months? Yes. Yes, it does."

"Why is he worried about leaving you alone?"

"We haven't been apart since—" she cuts herself off abruptly. "We just haven't been apart in quite some time."

"How long is quite some time?"

"Months."

"And this whole time you've been having nightmares."

"For a while, yes."

"But it doesn't concern you."

Hermione hesitates. "I'm fine. I'm getting better, actually."

"Why do you think your nightmares concern Ronald?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know."

"Why don't you ask him?"

"I'm asking you."

"I was tortured," she says flatly. "Okay? I was tortured. And I dream about it. It doesn't take an emotional healer with five NEWTs to figure out why being tortured might lead to a few bad dreams."

"You're right. It doesn't. But sometimes it takes an emotional healer with five NEWTs—actually, not to toot my own horn, but it's more like nine"—he smiles—"to help make them go away."

Hermione stares at him.

"You want them to go away, don't you?"

"Of course."

"How does Ronald know you're having"—he hesitates, recalling her own words—"bad dreams?"

"I just told you, didn't I? We haven't been apart in months."

"My wife isn't aware of my dreams. We share a room, too."

"I guess I'm louder than your wife."

"So you . . . talk in your sleep? When you're having these dreams?"

"You could say that."

"What would _you_ say?"

"Ron says I cry out. I scream."

"What do you scream?"

She doesn't reply.

"What do you see when you scream?"

Hermione pauses. She looks down at her hands. "Her. The—the witch who tortured me."

"What else?"

Hermione closes her eyes. The scene is so real in her head. Bellatrix is there, screaming in her face. "Mudblood!" Blood drips from the knife—Hermione's blood. She hears herself screaming. She hears Ron screaming her name. She's screaming. Bellatrix is screaming. Ron is screaming. She can't—she can't focus.

"Hermione?"

She opens her eyes.

"Where were you just now?"

"Nowhere. Here, I mean." She can see he doesn't believe her.

"What else do you see?" he presses her gently.

"Just—just her. And blood. She's cutting me. I can hear myself screaming. And Ron."

"What are you screaming?"

"In pain. Just—I'm screaming in pain. And I'm screaming for Ron."

"Where's Ron?"

"Down in the—down in the cellar. They've locked him down there. He can hear me screaming. But he can't—he can't get to me. He's screaming my name. I hear him," she says quietly.

"How does that make you feel? Hearing that?"

"It's like a knife. Like the knife she used on me. Worse, maybe."

"Worse?"

"I can feel him. How scared he is for me. How desperate he sounds. I want him to be okay."

"But you're the one being tortured."

"So is he."

He pauses, looking at her thoughtfully. "You love him very much."

"Yes. But I can't reach him. In my dream, I can never reach him."

He pauses. "Is it always the same?"

"Yes," Hermione replies quietly. "Always the same."

"What happens when you wake up?"

"Ron wakes me. I think. He—I don't know. He . . . holds me until I go back to sleep."

"How often do you have these dreams?"

Hermione shrugs. "I don't know. They're getting better, I think, really. After—after, they came a lot. But since—since—in Australia I barely had them."

"And now?"

"A bit more frequent, I suppose."

"Why do you think they're becoming more frequent now?"

"You're the bloody healer; you tell me."

"I'd like to know what _you_ think." He falls silent, waiting for her to respond.

She looks back down at her hands and sits in silence.

"I have all day, Hermione."

"Do you? I thought you do this by the hour."

"I booked extra time for you. Favor to Kingsley," he smiles at her.

"I was wondering how Ron got me into your office on such short notice. You have a pretty fancy title."

He chuckles. "I do. But you know, I'd have done this even without the Minister of Magic making the request on behalf of the Weasleys."

"Why?" Hermione raises an eyebrow.

"Because I admire you."

Hermione snorts.

"It's not even what you've done, which is a lot—it's how strong and brave you must have been to do it. How much love you must have inside your heart. I admire that."

"Thanks. If only everyone felt that way."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, there are still Death Eaters out there. And I'm still a mudblood—oh, no need to cringe—I'm used to it by now," she raises the sleeve on her forearm and shows him her scar. "A gift from Bellatrix Lestrange."

He swallows. "I see. You think about that a lot."

"I do," she rolls down her sleeve and touches her fingers to the spot one more time.

"Why?"

"Because it's a permanent reminder of what it feels like to be hated for what you were born." Her voice is steely.

"So many people love you, Hermione."

"Yes," she nods slowly, thoughtfully. She pauses. "Do you know what they'd do to Ron if they ever caught him? No one in his family has ever ended up with—with someone like me. These _purebloods_"—she spits out the word—"hate blood traitors almost as much they hate us. _Me_." She touches her arm again.

"Do you worry about that?"

"About Ron getting hurt because he's with me? Yes. I do."

"Does he worry about it?"

"No. He can be quite daft about these things."

"Or maybe he just accepts things as they are."

Hermione's face betrays a slight smile. "He used to defend me, you know—when we were little, he'd try to beat up anyone who called me a mudblood. Draco Malfoy," she shudders. "He was the worst."

"Sounds like he _still_ might beat up anyone who called you a—that," he smiles.

"Yes, probably so," Hermione laughs. "He's . . . he's very loyal."

He pauses. "Bellatrix—she's dead?"

"Yes."

"Are you glad?"

"Very. Does that make me less admirable?"

"No. But it does make me think you need someone to talk to. Someone who can help you make sense of all of these—very normal by the way—feelings you're having."

"I have Ron."

"And I know he loves you very much. I didn't read that in _The Prophet_, by the way," he chuckles. "It's obvious from a five minute conversation with him."

Hermione blushes and bites down on her lip.

"I know that he wants you to be happy. Healthy. He wants the nightmares to end. I can help you if you give me a chance."

"How can you help me? Can you make sure that Ron doesn't get hurt—or _killed_—when he goes off chasing Death Eaters—_again_—while I'm sitting in the library at Hogwarts studying Ancient Runes?"

"So it concerns you that he's going to be chasing Death Eaters?"

"Didn't you hear anything I've said?" Hermione snaps. "Yes, it _concerns_ me," she mimics his tone. "Aside from the fact that it's a bloody dangerous job on a _good_ day, Ron's made plenty of enemies this year, hasn't he? It certainly doesn't help that _we're_ together. Sure, he's bloody famous and everyone wants to buy him a whiskey and the Ministry is falling all over themselves to give him a brilliant job—but where are all those wizards and witches going to be when he's out there, hunting down the Carrows or Augustus Rookwood? I'll tell you where—home _safe_, with their families."

"So you'd prefer that he go back to Hogwarts. Where he'll be safe."

"Yes. No. Yes."

He raises an eyebrow.

"No. He—I mean, he _wants_ to be an auror. He's always wanted it. And I want him to be happy. But I want him to be _safe_."

"And the two are incompatible?"

"When it comes to my boyfriend, generally, _yes_."

"I can't keep Ron safe. Neither can you, Hermione," he says gently.

Hermione doesn't respond. She goes back to staring at her hands.

"So, do you think, _maybe_," he asks gently, "that the recurrence of these . . . nightmares are connected to what we're talking about right now?"

"I don't know. . . . Maybe. Possibly. I don't know."

"Have you talked to him about any of this?"

"No, of course not. He was just accepted to bloody auror training. Do you know how many wizards from Hogwarts get accepted every year? Very few. Do you know how many have been accepted without _graduating_? One. _Ron_. He's wanted this his whole life."

"That doesn't mean he won't want to hear how you feel about it."

"So, what? So he drops out of the program? Does something safe and boring? Just so that I can sleep at night?," she touches her forearm again.

"Not everything is black or white, Hermione. Not everything is so easily solved."

"What the bloody hell does that even mean?"

"It means that talking about your fears—even if there's no easy fix—is important. Telling Ronald how you feel about the work he's undertaking _means_ something. Being honest about it. And it doesn't mean that he's going to be any safer. It just means that he'll know how you feel. And why you're scared. And that's important if you love him. He deserves to know how you're feeling. And _you_ deserve to be with someone who's willing to hear it."

"And that helps," Hermione says skeptically.

"You'd be surprised."

"I _would_ be, actually."

"How does Ron feel about you returning to school?"

Hermione sighs. "He's—he'd love for me to stay with him in London, but he wants me to go back. Finish up. I'm the best witch of my grade," she blushes as she parrots Ron's words. "He says so, anyway. He wouldn't be happy if I didn't finish up."

"Even though it means you'll be apart."

"Yes. It's certainly less than ideal."

"Sometimes you do things even when they're hard. You'd know that better than anyone," he smiles kindly. "It sounds like Ronald's been pretty honest with you about _his_ feelings."

Hermione nods, running her fingers over her forearm.

"Don't you owe him the same?"

"I don't know," she says quietly. "Yes."

"I think you're very strong, Hermione. I think you're even stronger than you know."

Hermione doesn't respond.

"And I think you're going to get through this. I think you and Ronald will get each other through this. What do you think?"

"I think so, too," Hermione says softly. "So, why do I need you?" But she smiles at him when she says this.

He smiles back. "Why don't we discuss that next week?"

"I don't think so."

"Going forward, Fridays should work. I'll talk to Professor McGonagall about granting you special dispensation on weekends."

"What?"

"You're of age. And, technically, you should have graduated last year. I think it'll work."

"Special dispensation for what?"

"To come home on the weekends."

"What?"

"In exchange, of course, for your commitment to seeing me on Friday afternoons. Every Friday afternoon."

"For the rest of my life?"

He laughs. "I certainly hope not."

"I'd be able to—I'd be able to come home on the weekends?" she asks hesitantly.

"I'll have to discuss it with Professor McGonagall, of course, but I don't see why we can't work something out. I have a feeling she'll be inclined to be somewhat lenient, given the student in question," he smiles at her.

"And if I don't want to see you again?"

"Well, I think it'd be a small price to pay for coming home to Ronald every weekend, don't you?" he raises an eyebrow.

"He'll be gone for three months."

"So you'll be waiting for him when he returns."

"You're something else."

"An excellent healer, I'm told," he smiles.

"And if I think this is a waste of time?"

"Well, let's waste some time, then," he says lightly. "There's no harm to it, is there? I'm confident that Ronald will agree."

She narrows her eyes. "Did Ron—did he put you up to this?"

"No, Hermione. I can assure you that what I'm offering you right now comes from my own evaluation of your needs. And I _do_ think you need this. A place where you can talk. A place to sort through your feelings."

"And what if _I_ don't think I need this?"

He shrugs. "Then you can walk out that door and go back to your nightmares and your very worried boyfriend, and hope that things get better on their own."

Hermione sighs. "_Every_ Friday?"

"Every Friday. Give me an hour of your afternoon. I can help you, Hermione. I can make you healthier. For yourself. And for Ron," he adds gently. "Don't you want that?"

"Of course I want that."

"So we're agreed?"

Hermione sighs, rising from the sofa. "See you next week. I guess."

END.


End file.
